Just Words
by Spartangal22
Summary: John spends the night at St. Bart's after nearly burning alive. While he's there, he decides it's time to talk to someone he's been avoiding for a while, and what begins as a confrontation ends as a reminder of what it means to be friends.


He'd spent plenty of time at Bart's over the recent years, but this was his first visit as a patient, and his first visit since…

John shuddered involuntarily, then rolled his eyes. _But you don't need to think of it like that anymore, do you? He's bloody alive._ John shifted irritably beneath his blankets. The burns weren't bad, the doctors had said, so why insist he stay the night? He'd have been just as uncomfortable at Baker Stre-

At Mary's. He' d have been just as uncomfortable at Mary's.

 _Not dead_ , he'd said. John grit his teeth. What an asshole. It was such a short message; it wouldn't have taken much time at all for him to have delivered it any time in the last two freakin' years. John never would have believed that two words could have made such a huge difference in his life, but looking back… Well, he tried not to look back. The only good thing that had come of the last twenty-four months was Mary.

That thought brought a smile to his lips even as he continued to squirm in the scratchy sheets. Mary, who'd said yes. That was only one word, and it was even better than Sherlock's two. His sister liked to say that everything happened for a reason; was that it, then? Did Sherlock have to be dead to the world so that John could meet Mary?

Not dead to the _entire_ world, he remembered. Mycroft had known, and that explained Mycroft's dismissive behavior throughout the funeral. John remembered him glancing impatiently at his watch every few minutes, and John had been so enraged that he'd nearly punched him in the middle of the cemetery. Greg Lestrade had noticed, and held him back, and then instead of punching John had felt like crying, so he'd walked away quickly before anyone saw. When he returned, Mycroft was gone. He didn't even stay to watch the burial. _Of course he didn't. He knew the coffin was empty_.

Sherlock's homeless network had known too, and John wondered what threats Mycroft had made to keep them quiet all this time. He'd have been busy, Holmes the elder, keeping track of all of them. So many people who knew such a big secret…

John shot straight up and swung himself from the bed. He grimaced as he pulled on his trousers, but, dressed properly, he decided to take a way.

* * *

What did it say about him, that he felt more at ease in St. Bart's morgue than anywhere else? He didn't know, and he didn't care to. He watched Molly work from the spot where he leaned against the doorframe. She hadn't noticed him yet; she was very concentrated on the body of a young woman in front of her. Every move she made was precise; no cut was made thoughtlessly, and when she was done in one place, Molly cleaned her work and covered the woman again. Only when she had made her way round the woman's head did she see John by the door. She jumped, her hand going to her heart despite the scalpel she held. "Oh, John. You…you startled me."

He took a few steps in, stopping well short of the corpse. "Yeah, sorry. Watch the scalpel."

"What? Oh, yes, thank you. You…What are you doing here? I haven't seen you since…ages."

Since ages. That seemed about right. John couldn't recall precisely the last time he'd seen Molly Hooper, but it had been well over a year. He'd very consciously cut everyone from his Sherlock Life out of his No-Sherlock Life, and he'd done a very good job at it. Only Lestrade refused to be ignored.

Molly looked pretty much the same. Her long, light brown hair was tied into a ponytail that she had tucked beneath her lab coat. Where it opened, John could see a light pink sweater beneath. She was wearing blush, he noticed, and lipstick, and absentmindedly pulled on the ring finger of her left hand, waiting for him to speak.

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, it's been…Sorry, about that. It's been a rough time."

She nodded, biting her lip. "I heard you were here as a patient. Greg told me, not the doctors. They don't gossip, at least, not to me."

"Uh, yeah. I had an incident with some fire." He looked her straight in the eye. "Sherlock got me out."

Molly did a tremendous job of meeting his gaze, despite the flush that crept up her neck. "He told me that too. Greg, not Sherlock. I have seen Sherlock, though. He came by, and we went out…"

"I know you knew."

"I'm sorry." The words were rushed, but, John thought, sincere. Still, he couldn't quite bring himself to absolve her just yet. She'd seen him after The Fall. She'd seen what a mess he'd been, how his limp returned and he avoided people. Or maybe she hadn't known. She'd barely spoken at the funeral. At the time, he'd thought maybe she was too sad. But she hadn't cried, and John actually found that admirable. _If Molly can keep it together_ , he'd told himself, _so can I._

Of course, it was a lot easier to be sensible at a funeral when you know that no one is dead. Even John could have managed that, if he'd been let in on the secret. Which he hadn't.

"He needed my help with it," Molly continued when John remained silent. "He needed his double. That's what we called him; his real name was John Frasier. John - isn't that odd? We thought so, at the time."

"Did you all have a good laugh about it?" Molly cringed, and John ran a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Molly. That was…unnecessary. It was rude."

"No, it's alright. You can be angry. I thought you would be." She set the scalpel down and pulled the sheet over the young woman's head.

"What happened to her?" John asked.

"I can't really talk about it," Molly said, putting her clipboard away. "I haven't even told the family yet. It wouldn't be decent."

John smiled. "No, I suppose it wouldn't be."

When the woman was covered, and the area was cleared, Molly pulled her gloves off and took a seat, offering John the one across from her. "I couldn't tell you, John. Sherlock and his brother made that very, very clear."

"I'm sure they did," John said reassuringly. He knew how Mycroft was; someone as kind as Molly would have made an easy target for him. "It's not your fault-"

"I wanted to, though," she cut him off. "I hated seeing you so upset, and it killed me to know that just a few short words could make it better. I really thought about it a few times. I was so tempted, and so worried that I would give it away, that I just had to stop seeing you." She looked down, still pulling at her finger. "I'm sorry I've been avoiding you, John."

John blinked. "You…? No, Molly. That's…That's my fault. I've avoided everyone. _Everyone._ I didn't know what to do. I really didn't handle it all very well," he admitted. "I was more lost than I ever thought I would be. I guess I didn't realize how much of an impact Sherlock Holmes had made."

Molly smiled sadly. "Tell me about it." Then the smile brightened. "But it's good now, right? Obviously it is, if you know about me and what we did."

"I don't know what you did," John corrected quickly. "I didn't ask him."

She looked surprised. "Oh, it was all rather simple, in retrospect. We-"

John shook his head. "No, I don't really care. I'm sure it was all very clever and he fooled everyone with his brilliance." _Include me._

Molly frowned. "So…you and Sherlock? You haven't…?"

John pushed himself to his feet, without anywhere to go. "No, we haven't. Two years, Molly." John clenched his fists. He could feel his anger returning, and this time, he directed it at the man who deserved it. "He let me believe he was dead for _two years._ Who _does_ that?"

"He wanted to tell you," Molly said quietly. "I know he did. But I think he was afraid."

John scoffed. "Of what? Of me?" Though, the bloody lip and nose John had given him might have justified that fear.

Molly stared up at him. "I think that he knew if he told you, you would have wanted to come with him, and if you'd offered, I don't think he would have been able to say no. And then you would have been in danger and it would have been his fault. At least, that's how he thought about it. I think he would have rather you hated him, and mourned him, than be dead because of him."

John sat back down, running a hand through his hair. For the first time, he wondered what it would have been like to know. Would he have asked to go with Sherlock? _Probably_ , he admitted to himself. What else would he have done? Gone back to practicing? That's what he'd done when he thought Sherlock was dead, though it took a long, long time before he could even do that. He _wouldn't_ have spent a year mourning, wouldn't have had to go back to three-times-a-week therapy sessions, wouldn't have spent a year with Molly and Mrs. Hudson, a year dreading Lestrade's visits. But could he have just let Sherlock leave and put himself in danger, without his blogger?

"How did you do it for two years, Molly? Not tell anyone?"

"Oh, I told tons of people." John's eyes widened in surprise, then she pointed at the woman on the slab. "Nearly every one of them who came through here knew the secret. I'd have gone nuts otherwise. Though, some people might think it's nuts anyway, talking to dead people."

"Sherlock talks to a skull," John told her without thinking. "Calls it Billy."

She blinked. "Really?"

John nodded. "So you're as sane as he is."

They shared a short laugh at that, but John's mind was elsewhere. It would have been really difficult, he was realizing, to hold that secret in. "Did you know he was alive the whole time?"

Her brows furrowed. "Yes, I've told you-"

"No, I mean, did Mycroft tell you anything while he was away?"

"Oh." She pulled on her finger again. "Occasionally. Sometimes I'd be walking and then a limousine would pull up and take me to him. Mycroft would tell me that Sherlock was alive, or tell me to check the morning papers for an interesting story about 'our mutual friend,' things like that."

John rolled his eyes. "That sounds like Mycroft."

Molly shrugged. "It was alright, really. The limo would always drop me off at home or work, and save me the cab fare. And if I ever missed time at work because of it, Mycroft would pay me back."

"Can you find the good in anyone, Molly?"

"Not Jim," she answered quickly, her eyes darkening. "Never Moriarty."

Jim from IT, John recalled, who'd dated Molly to spy on Sherlock. _Did Sherlock know even then how dangerous he was? What he was going to do?_ Moriarty, at least, was dead.

Just like Sherlock.

"Moriarty's dead, right?" John asked suddenly. "Blew his brains out. You saw the body?"

Molly nodded. "He's dead. There was hardly anything left of the face, but there were other…" She trailed off, leaving unsaid the things that were probably best left unsaid. "Yes, he's dead."

"That nightmare's over, at least."

Molly leaned over and reached into her desk. She pulled out a small, silver ring and slipped it on her finger. John remembered, then, something Greg had told him months ago, that he'd only half listened to. "The fiancé," he nodded towards her hand. "That's still a thing?"

She nodded. "Your blogging? Is _that_ still a thing?"

John sighed, and looked away. "How do I get over it, Molly? _Two years_."

"Did you miss him?"

John frowned. "Yes, of course."

She shrugged. "Well, now he's back, isn't he? That solves the problem."

"I don't think it's that simple."

"It is, though. I don't understand why people who have the chance to be happy deliberately keep themselves unhappy to make a point. You were sad, but you don't have to be anymore."

"Now I'm angry."

"And hurt," she pointed out, quite correctly. "But that'll wear off eventually. He's your friend."

"My best friend," John corrected automatically. He'd never called Sherlock that to his face, but in the two years he'd been gone, it had seemed less than fitting to call him anything else.

Molly smiled. "Yes. And he missed you too. He brought me along to solve crimes with him, and he called me by your name at least twice. You two are a team. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Has he said sorry?"

John laughed. "Good God, no. Well, not properly. Not well. Have you ever heard Sherlock Holmes apologize?"

Molly twisted her ring again. "Yes."

The Christmas party. John blushed. Sherlock had been horrid to her that night. How had she forgiven _that?_

Molly cleared her throat. "Well, he should say sorry, at least, and when he does, you should forgive him. That's what friends do." She smiled again. "Best friends." She looked up at the clock. "And I should be getting out of here, John, I'm sorry, it's really late, and I've got an early day tomorrow…"

John shook his head, getting to his feet. "No, I don't want to keep you. I imagine the nurses have noticed my escape by now, too. I should be getting back."

"Yes, alright. You should rest. I'm glad you're okay, you know. I don't know if I told you that. I'd have hated to see you down here for a different reason." She laughed absentmindedly as she switched her lab coat for her real coat.

"Sherlock saved me," John told her. "He got me out of the fire."

Molly nodded. "I'm not surprised. That's what friends do. Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Molly."

John took his time going back to his room. The burns were, well, burning now. Still, he was anxious to leave the hospital. He'd take the day off tomorrow, Mary had already insisted, and he might take a trip down to Baker Street in the meantime.

 _My best friend_ , he'd told Molly. Just three words, but it was enough.

* * *

 **I own nothing. Read and review - I love hearing from you.**


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